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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23380411">a dead watchman might be so clever</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsaer/pseuds/afearsomecritter'>afearsomecritter (jsaer)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dark, Gen, church grim mason</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:40:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,350</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23380411</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsaer/pseuds/afearsomecritter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A rough winter, rumors of the dead rising in the south, and rumors of things lurking in the dark are all it takes for the men of Fort Collins take it upon themselves to make a church grim.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a dead watchman might be so clever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So I posted "no such fearful thing" right after like, episode 2 and therefore didn't include any of the shiny backstory stuff we got after. I also stripped some of my nastier concepts out of fearful thing for reasons and decided I did actually want to play with some of it and the discord continues to be enablers</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-</p><p> </p><p>Camp Collins is a pretty place, perched in the foothills of the grand mountains and their snowy peaks. Then there’s a flood, and a new fort is built upriver. Fort Collins, they declare this one, for all that it lacks walls. </p><p>(there is a rough winter. there is a rumor of the dead rising in the south. there is a rumor of things lurking in the dark)</p><p>There are attacks in the dark, and no one has died yet but.</p><p>But.</p><p>(there’s rumors of the dead rising in the south there’s rumors of dead rising and killing there’s monsters in the dark-)</p><p>Someone is talking to their friends, quiet in the barracks. Old stories their grandparents told them of their own grandparents, things meant to keep the dead from rising-</p><p>A dog barks outside.</p><p>--</p><p>(they couldn’t agree, was the thing, two conflicting stories and the rot of the rising corpses getting closer every day. so, someone says, so why not both-)</p><p>--</p><p>There were wounded now, and some were close to dying. There wasn’t a graveyard yet, by Fort Collins.</p><p>Not yet.</p><p>--</p><p>(it’s the first thing buried in the new graveyard that protects it, one says, the first thing to die in a new graveyard, another argues, I thought it was a church, another says, but we don’t have one of those- </p><p>is it a person or a dog, someone else mumbles, both, another replies with the utter certainty of the terrified, we have to do-)</p><p>--</p><p>The boy in the cell doesn't look much like a murderer. They rarely do. </p><p>Until he opens his eyes in response to the lantern light, and smiles at them in greeting.</p><p>--</p><p>(the question of course was who and none would look each other in the eyes for fear of being volunteered. well, one says into the quiet, well they were usually criminals-)</p><p>--</p><p>"Ain't you out late," he drawls, and one of the men thinks uneasily of coyotes. The half smile the boy wears is crooked, cut on his cheek not yet scabbed over.</p><p>(none are looking none want to see the terror held tight behind the enamel of the smile of a boy who shot a man for beating a dog, staring down what he thinks must be the dying man's friends)</p><p>The bo-the man looks at their guns and their faces and says "Not to be a hanging, then."</p><p>He gets his reply in rope and blows from rifle butts, and he is dragged away.</p><p>He does not go down easy, the boy they refuse to name, leaves bleeding bite marks and bruises. Half were left in the rage fueled thrashes when he heard the dog already whimpering in the grave.</p><p>Blood soaks the ground and he refuses to allow it all to be his. </p><p>Someone is praying, low and frantic.</p><p>When he is gutted he grabs his killer in a crushing grip and snarls "God may forgive you, but I will not."</p><p>-</p><p>They were smart, and dug the hole first. </p><p>-</p><p>(these graveyard dogs were meant to be made with care, is the thing. criminals were condemned for this for the opportunity for one last good deed. there was a ritual to it not found in this murder in the dark. it should have been two corpses in a hole. should have been-)</p><p>-</p><p>The man is reported as a deserter, must've gotten out somehow, must've escaped his cell.</p><p>Fled justice, someone who knew the man who’d been shot mutters.</p><p>(the wanted poster declares desertion and murder and someone guesses the cut would scar and this is the dead boy's grave marker)</p><p>-</p><p>The dead do not rise in Fort Collins because the fort falls barely days later, screaming in the dark. </p><p>(the man who held the knife is the first to die, skewered on massive hooked claws)</p><p>No one notices a clumsy shadow in the chaos, stumbling four-legged-two upright from just outside the nonexistent walls. Stumbling away from the tiny forest of wooden markers to the first horse it reaches.</p><p>--</p><p>(“I…...ran”)</p><p>--</p><p>He's not actually sure what he is for a long time, maybe a month maybe a week he can't tell everything is strange and all he knows is that he needs to get <em>away</em> and by some miracle the mare he chose doesn't buck the abomination from her back.</p><p>Fleeing the fort felt- <em>bad</em> is the only way he can described it like he was abandoning something good something precious but he'd been fucking <em>killed there</em> oh God he was-</p><p>(he is doubled over in his saddle, clutching the mare's mane and whining thin and high)</p><p>Later, when he drops off his horse he stumbles and collapses into four legs and he doesn't even notice until he's curled in the roots of a tree and then he has hands again and he's staring at them and shaking and wondering why it doesn't feel any different.</p><p>--</p><p>Matthew takes to fiddling with the reins with rocks with cords with anything to remind him of the twist of fingers and span of a human palm.</p><p>(he doesn't always remember sometimes he has paws and the swirling sensation of being too solid smoke and a pale muzzle with no meat or fur attached and it's kind of terrible that that shape is becoming his favorite-)</p><p>One morning a couple weeks and robberies later (a bedroll a gun some food a flint and a story people get to tell about an encounter with a monster in the woods they survived) Matthew wakes up with a dirt encrusted dog skull resting on his chest. It has a chipped front tooth, and a knife mark scored across its muzzle.</p><p>His still raw cheek throbs.</p><p>--</p><p>(he keeps the skull near him at first it hurts to keep it away and then one day he reaches and it vanishes and his face still feels human but when he runs his tongue over the back of his teeth there is one sharp set too many but no one ever seems to see-)</p><p>--</p><p>The first time he kills someone after it is with human hands and human weapons. A pair of bandits or outlaws or just assholes come stumbling into his camp, drunk and snarling about handing over money he doesn't have and he thinks about talking and then one of the men's brandished knives gets too close to his mare and-</p><p>Matthew wants to say, later, that he blanks out and comes to with corpses on the forest floor. Instead everything just gets real cold and sharp and his impetus is just sheer outrage and he lunges.</p><p>He grabs the knife first, slashes open one throat (he is gasping wetly in the heavy dirt bellies cut to bleed them out if the suffocating weight of dirt doesn't get them first too weak to dig out) and spins as the other drops and he throws the knife and he's always had good aim and practice (playing using leaves as targets as the dogs snuffled and lounged around his legs) made him better.</p><p>The forest and its dead claw shadows onto the plains behind him as he rides out into the open expanse.</p><p>--</p><p>He leaves his mare with a well off rancher, fervently citing her unflappable nature please take care of her please-</p><p>(the rancher looks at the underfed sapling of an almost man and the glossy coat of his horse and says alright alright and she's indeed the most reliable horse he's ever had and she lives longer than a human boy named Matthew ever did)</p><p>--</p><p>He spends more and more time on his own four feet because it's easier everything is easier in a way that comes to terrifying him. Everything is simpler.</p><p>(he does not eat he does not drink he breathes with false lungs an echo that thinks itself real)</p><p>He only finds his way to two feet again when he is laying on sun warmed rock and realizes he doesn’t know what day month season it is. Then he is sitting cross legged on the rock, hands clasped white knuckled behind his head and focused on the feeling of cloth and leather between himself and stone.</p><p>He sits and breathes in the sunlight. </p><p>--</p><p>There's a dog standing by the road. </p><p>It’s brindle (that's all that makes it hard to see in the dusk, why the edges blur) and staring at the stagecoach. Its face is oddly pale, a reverse of the usual dark mask. </p><p>There's a dog sitting in the road, staring down the slowing stagecoach. Its eyes are dark and locked on the driver's face. The driver stares back. Wheels slow to a stop. There's some disgruntled and curious noises from the coach, wondering why they've stopped. The dog's eyes are locked on the driver's face.</p><p>Someone sticks their head out the window.</p><p>There's a man standing in the road, shotgun held steady.</p><p>"Good evening," the man says.</p><p>There is no dog in the road.</p><p>--</p><p>The first time he kills someone with his teeth is when a robbery goes wrong. One too many of the hard-eyed men have guns under their fancy waistcoats and he is facing down a barrel yet again and he panics and feels his second set of teeth <em>shift</em>-</p><p>He is much taller than usual.</p><p>--</p><p>(only two die, in the end. one flees, and is incoherent when found. those who stayed in the carriage just said they heard screams. screams and then quiet. </p><p>no gunshots? the sheriff will ask.</p><p>none, they reply)</p><p>--</p><p>He's more careful, after that.</p><p>--</p><p>"Matthew," he introduces himself at the general store. He knows it's stupid to keep his name, has heard that not all of Fort Collins died and someone will notice him missing and presumably deserted but it's all he fucking has left of himself.</p><p>(something he doesn't let himself think about is how he's fairly certain he used to have green eyes)</p><p>It is only then, as the name hangs in the air, weightless, that he realizes he can't remember his family name. He stumbles, blurting something generic even as his ears ring. </p><p>He thinks, vaguely, that he wished they'd left him a grave marker.</p><p>--</p><p>Mason, he eventually decides as he approaches Rapid City, Matthew Mason. He likes the sound of it.</p><p>(he will not learn his own name until a wanted poster is shoved into his hands)</p><p>--</p><p>If someone were to map his footsteps around Rapid City there would be two voids in the map- the church and the cemetery.</p><p>He certainly wasn't the only person avoiding the chapel in this town, full of people who treated God's word like an unsprung steel trap, likely to crush bones if you look at it too hard.</p><p>(to disdain the good book or fear it like one does a storm was normal. but to flinch from prayers like white hot pokers, like a knife in the belly was noticeable and he gets better at not flinching)</p><p>The preacher gave some of his sermons on the street, called from the front porch of the chapel like a merchant hawking wares. </p><p>Matthew finds himself listening without meaning to, sometimes, caught by the words of kindness instead of curses he was used to hearing from priests. </p><p>(he sneaks into an evening service once, just a dull four legged shadow. the visceral sense of rightness and home frightens him so badly he does not return to town for weeks. the next time he tries on two legs and it is. bearable.)</p><p>--</p><p>Once, in between services, Matthew wanders into the chapel. The dim interior is cool after the bright mid-summer sun. He can't see the preacher, but the book is laid out open on the podium. </p><p>He finds himself trailing a finger across the words, trying to drag up half-remembered lessons. </p><p>"Do you read?" says the Reverend behind him, and Matthew nearly jumps out of his skin hard enough he thinks he feels his form flicker. When he looks the Reverend hasn't so much as blinked so it probably didn't.</p><p>(or so he hopes, this is the same preacher he's seen stare down a bellowing drunk with the same unblinking calm matthew had once seen on an ancient bull moose, tines wreathed with moss and the blood of unlucky wolves)</p><p>There is a weight to the question, something other than a simple question of literacy.</p><p>Matthew glances down at the page again.</p><p>"Not in a long while," he says.</p><p>"You are always welcome to practice here," the Reverend replies. He has a low voice, a soft burr blurring the edges. "It's not too late to learn."</p><p>Matthew lets out a hoarse bark of laughter.</p><p>"I think it may be for me," he says. He's out the door before the Reverend can reply, feeling his eyes on him the whole way. </p><p>--</p><p>Matthew avoids town and the road for several weeks after that. Eventually he has to wander back into town for supplies, winning a few hands of poker instead of trying his hand at another stagecoach.</p><p>The Reverend is out in front of the chapel. He is speaking of rebirth. Matthew stills, haversack slung over his shoulder.</p><p>The preacher speaks of starting anew. He’s looking at him, calm and nothing expectant. Just kind. </p><p>(he thinks of stumbling into the bloody night covered in grave dirt, thinks of guns and stagecoaches, thinks of daydreams of a boy hoping for a future)</p><p>He listens and there's something aching in his chest- not hope, hope is still a poison word, made from rotting could've beens. But that's the closest word he can ascribe to the feeling looped around his lungs.</p><p>Fuck it, he thinks.</p><p>Matthew walks forward.</p><p>--</p><p>(there is something soothing about the surety of belief that begins to seep into him. he has not quite stopped flinching every time he enters the cemetery by his first funeral service)</p><p>--</p><p>He decides to be friendlier. It doesn’t always work especially well, in a city as rough as Rapid City. He persists anyway, he's so tired of fear.</p><p>It suits him, eventually, the life of a Reverend. He enjoys learning the book and the ways you can read it. He only stumbles when he speaks of forgiveness, old vows rattling behind his teeth.</p><p>(early on he walks the graveyard at night, stiffening his spine against the visceral upset the rows of corpses beneath dirt heavy and cloying invoke. then he sees two people with shovels, crouched near freshly turned earth. </p><p>there's no few fears about wolf attacks, after)</p><p>--</p><p>The church receives a telegraph, several years later.</p><p>--</p><p>He'd been told the church had burned, and Matthew had expected something razed to its foundation, complete with still smoking embers. The building is only half burnt, and somehow still standing. </p><p>He stands before it, staring before he goes in. The building creaks quietly in the wind, audible even with the chaotic life around him. Half burnt, and still standing. </p><p>Leather creaks as his hands flex in his gloves.</p><p>Alright, he thinks, alright.</p><p>(gunfire erupts behind him, and he has his first funeral service that day)</p><p>--</p><p>Reverend Matthew Mason is a sweet man who keeps his head down and away from the rough and tumble elements of the town, apart from when he’s dealing with the remnants of some fight or another.</p><p>Matthew is glad for this new start, one too many people in Rapid City knew him when he was that standoffish, feral eyed man who just came into town sometimes before he became a priest. The wary eyes are not so watchful, here. He likes being just the kind, almost bumbling Reverend.</p><p>And then Al fucking Swearengen called him to his office, and he’s not done a good a job as he’s thought.  </p><p>--</p><p>Looking at Clayton Sharpe is like looking at a very strange mirror. He’s a bit like what Matthew might’ve been, had events not gone the way they had.</p><p>Except, Matthew thinks, catching a leather jacket, that Sharpe likely had to try and smother a frankly ludicrous amount of excess goodness, if this was what was left. Matthew's never had that issue. </p><p>--</p><p>It is only a literal decade of practice that keeps the inhuman snarl from ripping from his chest at the sight of the snake abominations. </p><p>--</p><p>When the strange lightning leaps from his hands it feels like a gift. </p><p>(someone looked upon him and thought an abomination was worthy of this he wants to be)</p><p>The screaming clamor of <em>wrong wrong wrong</em> making his skin try to crawl off his bones (into another form entirely) is silenced as the once-hung men are destroyed one by one. </p><p>--</p><p>Even after a day of snake abominations and what had to be God <em>talking to him</em> and lightning leaping from his hands, Matthew somehow hadn’t thought being held at gunpoint by one of his newest companion’s in a hotel room would be on the list of happenings this evening.</p><p>Sharpe'd knocked on the door polite as anything. Matthew hadn’t even thought something might be wrong until he’d looked up from relatching the door and found himself face to face with the end of a gun.</p><p>Ice spikes up his spine and he unconsciously shifts his weight, freezing at the twitch of the barrel the movement netted him. Sharpe’s eyes are flickering all over him, especially his face for some reason. He looks surprisingly unnerved for a man who’d faced snake abominations and a pit of dead miners with relative calm.</p><p>“What the fuck are you?” Sharpe hisses, pistol barrel leveled at Matthew’s heart. </p><p>A heart that skips a beat when the other man’s words register.</p><p>“I don’t know what you mean,” Matthew says reflexively, hands still raised. </p><p>“Don’t give me that shit,” Sharpe says, “I saw you, when that power came over us, when it lit up our insides like some sort of lantern.”</p><p>“Wha-”</p><p>“Your skull was wrong- looked like a dog or coyote or some shit. And I don’t think the others saw, but I did, and given the general fuckery of this evening I ain’t especially inclined to let it go.” </p><p>Sharpe’s eyes are locked on his face, and Matthew knows he sees the second realization clicks into place in Matthew’s mind.</p><p>“Oh,” Matthew says, stupidly. “I- it did?”</p><p>“It did. Now, if you would be so accommodating as to perhaps explain this here situation and answer my previous question?”</p><p>There is a beat of silence in the room, the distant clatter of chairs and voices seeping in around the edges. Sharpe’s gun hasn’t wavered. </p><p>“I-I don’t rightly know,” the Reverend says, hands slowly lowering.</p><p>--</p><p>The Reverend settles himself on the bed with Clayton taking the chair near the door. He still has his gun out of course, the memory of glancing sideways just enough to see an inhuman skull light up impossibly behind the Reverend’s face too vivid for him to feel comfortable setting it back down.</p><p>"Being buried alive isn't a guaranteed death," the Reverend starts slowly, thumb ticking back and forth over his knuckles, bereft of their usual rosary. Clayton's attention catches on that for a moment before the Reverend's words register and his gaze snaps up to the other man's face.</p><p>"But they must've needed the deaths to happen in the grave," he continues, tone flat and distant, "so they slit our bellies and threw us in."</p><p>It sounds like a recitation, like words wrung from the mouths of those depicted in the bleakest parts of the good book. Clayton sees the fine tremble in the Reverend's hands and knows it isn't.</p><p>“I….you know, it’s kind of funny, but I don’t really know why they did it. One of the men, he- I think he drew something on my face, with my own damn blood but it was all so dark and so fast-” The Reverend stops, fingers flexing so the knuckles go white. </p><p>"It should have been a dead boy and a dog in a hole. I don't know why it wasn't, probably never will."</p><p>"Not God?" slips from Clayton's mouth, and he bites down on his tongue. Before he can offer an apology the Reverend laughs. It's an awful, guttural noise and Clayton flinches from it.</p><p>"Maybe," the Reverend says, apparently not noticing the flinch. He laughs again, short and rough, "It may make me a terrible priest but I-I rather hope it wasn't."</p><p>The silence sits and aches for a moment before Clayton untied his tongue. "Who were these men?"</p><p>The Reverend shrugs, thumb still brushing knuckles in a steady metronome. </p><p>"Some other men at the fort, I could make out the uniforms but not faces well. I wasn't in the habit of speaking to most at the time."</p><p>" 'Other' men at the fort?" Clayton asks, caught on that despite his disbelief that the kindly man he met yesterday wouldn't have friends to all and sundry. </p><p>"Ah, yes, I served for a bit in the Ohio Cavalry division in Fort Collins, Colorado. There was an attack, in the night, after. I...ran, during it. I uh, I don't recall much from those days."</p><p>-</p><p>Matthew can feel Sharpe staring at him, but he won't look back. <em>please</em> he thinks, <em>please don't ask more this is more than I have told anyone please</em></p><p>He hears metal scrape against wood and doesn't manage to contain a flinch, looking up to see Sharpe holstering his pistol.</p><p>"I reckon," the other man says slowly, "so long as you're telling the truth and not connected with these snake creatures, I have no reason not to let this be."</p><p>He stands and turns to leave, Matthew still frozen sitting on the bed.</p><p>Sharpe glances over his shoulder at the door, "My apologies for interruptin' your evening. Good night, Reverend."</p><p>And then Matthew is mouthing a reply to a closed door.</p><p>He sits there for a long moment before he bends forward and swears viciously into his clasped hands. </p><p>--</p><p>He does not have to feign as much fear as he wishes he did, when the ground vanishes beneath him and he is in a grave. Again.</p><p>(clayton’s eyes are more concerned that matthew would have expected when he’s pulled out, grip still firm around matthew’s wrist for several long beats after)</p><p>--</p><p>"I know what you did," the man says and Matthew thinks <em>fuck you</em>- and he can feel his lips skinning back from his teeth.</p><p>--</p><p>The Reverend is still staring at the poster in his hands, utterly still. Clayton glances over his shoulder, but the alleyway is still empty, quiet compared to the bustle on the road. </p><p>“Reverend?”</p><p>The Reverend jumps, paper nearly ripping in his grip. </p><p>“I, uh,” he says eloquently. Clayton keeps his gaze slightly to the left of the other man’s face, unwilling to closely examine either the odd shapes or emotions he could see there. </p><p>“I’m gonna burn it,” Clayton says, tipping his head toward the poster with someone else’s name on it. “Just wanted you to know it was here.”</p><p>(he didn’t even change his first name, he thinks, bemused)</p><p>A wagon creaks by the alley, long shadow blinking over them.</p><p>“I didn’t lie,” the Reverend says abruptly, “Earlier, I mean.” Clayton feels his brow start to furrow. </p><p>“I don’t know why they picked me, not for sure. I-I guessed, for the longest time, that it was because I was due to be hanged.” </p><p>Clayton reflexively glances down at the charge of desertion.</p><p>“No,” the Reverend says, “they must’ve said that-after.” A sharp white canine glints in a half smile. “I’d shot a man for beating a dog.”</p><p>“Oh,” Clayton says.</p><p>The odd, empty smile stays on Mason’s face as he says “I always hoped it wasn’t the one they threw in with me.”</p><p>--</p><p>"No," Matthew says, and he can hear his human voice begin to fray. Aloysious doesn't so much as glance at him, gun still held steady on Clayton. Matthew can see something like netting, wrapped around Aloysious's head. It smelled like stale rooms and dust and bile and needed to be <em>gone</em>. </p><p>(he is trying very hard not to think of the sour exhaustion that had come after his own power)</p><p>He is within lunging distance of Aloysious, and he can distantly hear Clayton talking. This little group of theirs and Dan are the only people in the saloon. He breathes out, and lunges. He feels the bloom of agony in his chest at the same time his hand claws across the side of Aloysius's head and the net tears away and he is on the ground and someone is screaming.</p><p>--</p><p>The Reverend hits the ground and Aloysious crumples backward, gun clattering to the floor as his hands shoot up to his head. </p><p>Clayton is too busy scrambling to the Reverend to really register anything other than the gun dropping. </p><p>--</p><p>"Don't bury him," Clayton rasps. "He- we can't bury him." </p><p>"Why not," Miriam demands, still hunched over Mat-over the body.</p><p>"Clayton," Arabella starts from where she's glaring at a shaken Aloysius-</p><p>Matthew arches with a gasp.</p><p>--</p><p>(after)</p><p>“I think I used to have green eyes,” Matthew mumbles into Miriam’s shoulder, half asleep and hurting from a bar brawl.</p><p>“I know my hair was brown, I don’t know if it’s the same brown,” Matthew says absently to Arabella, tone ever so slightly off for a conversation about childhood hair colors. </p><p>“I guess we know why the fog didn’t like me,” he says to Aloysious, wry.</p><p>“If it hadn’t been for that poster I wouldn’t know my own name,” he whispers into the night air to Clayton, moonlight draped over them like their own heavy blankets as the campfire crackles nearby. "Thank you."</p><p>--</p><p>(there is a reverend standing unflinching in a graveyard, the sermon a rumble in a steady voice as yet another unlucky soul run afoul of deadwood is delivered unto the earth. </p><p>later people will start to notice a dog who lives around the church, face pale and brindled coat hard to see. </p><p>someone will remember a thing called a church grim, meant to look after the dead. the abominations of the risen must have called it, someone else replies. no one will know of how they’re made, and no one will ask.)</p><p>---</p>
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